Chicken Soup for the African American Soul by Jack Canfield

Author:Jack Canfield
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: ebook, book
ISBN: 9781453279953
Publisher: Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing
Published: 2010-08-05T07:00:00+00:00

Boondocks. ©1999 Aaron McGruder. Dist. by UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

Disappearing Strands

Love is like a virus. It can happen to anybody at any time.

Maya Angelou

Hair to black people is personal and always something to contend with. My hair was a symbol of my black pride. I forged a bond with myself years ago. I committed to wearing my hair only in its natural state, and gained new appreciation for its uniqueness. Black hair has styling capabilities that few other hair types can accomplish— from cornrows to flat twists, Bantu knots to goddess braids.

We wear these natural styles as a symbol of pride and dignity. More importantly, black hair is a shield of protection, originally given to us by our maker to shade our heads from the searing sun and protect us from the cold of night. Although difficult to deal with most times, black hair is a blessing that was bestowed upon my people, a blessing that is painfully absent to me now.

Nineteen days after my first chemotherapy treatment, my hair began to disappear. The nurse explained that because of the type of chemo medicine I would receive over the next twelve weeks, I would definitely lose my hair. I became consumed with thoughts of the road ahead of me in my battle with breast cancer.

There I was, wearing an African-style head wrap pretending I didn’t feel bald spots forming underneath. I never saw the strands fall; my hair just seemed to dissolve. I could no longer ignore what I felt or the reflection in the bathroom mirror.

My hair was fashioned into two-strand twists. Each twisted section had begun to rise as if my hair was swelling from the roots. Portions of the side and back of my hair had developed baby-smooth bald areas. As my fingers groped through the peaks and valleys, they rested on a twist separating from my scalp.

My husband, Charles, inspected my hair. There was no denying it. I was going bald!

Charles looked at me sympathetically and asked, “Do you want me to cut it?”

“Yes,” I replied with a heavy sigh as I sank onto the commode lid.

Charles began cutting my neck-length twists and carefully placing them in a plastic zipper bag. He said I would want to keep them for sentimental value. At that moment, I did not give a damn about those twists of hair. My husband kept softly conveying words of support and encouragement. He assured me that I would be even more beautiful to him without the hair.

He stopped cutting long enough to ask if I was okay. Tears the size of nickels swelled up in my eyes and spilled out over my cheeks. I collapsed against Charles’s legs, grabbing him around the waist. He held me close, lifting me up with comforting words that salved my panic and grief inside. We moved to the kitchen where I could sit in a chair, and Charles could finish the haircut using clippers. I sat there in silent shock, paralyzed by the trauma.

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